


Where Everything is Ours: A Drabble Collection

by objectlesson



Series: Drabble Collections [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M, check each chapter notes for tags!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 5,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22368601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: A collection of m/m napollya drabbles and ficlets I've written for tumblr.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Drabble Collections [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727191
Comments: 9
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> banter, tension, pining. For the prompt "I've seen the way you look at me when you think I don't notice"

They’re oiling and loading their guns, supplies spilled out over the crystal coffee table in Solo’s hotel suite. So much black and grey, dirty rags and bullets, and they look absurd there amid the room’s luxury, the half-empty decanter of liquor glittering between their working hands as they pass it back and forth. Illya is tired, and dizzy, and possibly a little drunk, which hasn’t happened in awhile. But he needs itsometimes, when he spends this much time around Solo, so the storm barely concealed beneath his surface does not leak out into the open, like gun-oil onto posh hotel carpet. Liquor helps, usually. It also makes his eyes wander, which is the opposite of helpful, but it’s better than chewing holes in his lips until they bleed, he thinks. 

Napoleon does not look up. He holds a bullet between his thumb and forefinger while Illya stares at him, infuriated by the cut of his jaw, the ice of his eyes. Maybe he would not feel the fabric of the universe ripping, if Solo was not so _lovely._ Maybe he would be feeling a regular amount of pain, like a regular man, instead of this constant hurricane. 

“Peril,” he says, sliding the bullet neatly into the clip. “Would you like a handkerchief?” 

“What?” Illya snaps, making a face, no idea whatsoever what Solo is talking about. It’s probably a joke, a trap he’s walking into, but he can’t _care_ right now, for he’s tired and dizzy, and possibly drunk. He watches Solo’s deft fingers, and licks his lips. 

“To wipe up your drool,” Solo says then, finally meeting Illya’s eyes in a flash. Then, in case there were any question about the _reasons_ for such a statement, he adds, “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

Illya wants to sputter, he wants to _deny._ Instead, he tears his gaze away and returns to the familiar violence of polishing the barrel of his gun. His fingers slide up the hot metal length, and his cheeks burn even hotter. 

“Do not flatter yourself, cowboy,” he spits, breath vodka-warm against his own lips. “I was merely thinking. About American-made revolvers, how they are not _quite_ comparable to the Russian equivalent.” 

Napoleon looks, and looks, eyes usually such an untroubled blue but _flickering,_ in this moment, like he’s trying to find something in a dimly lit room. Illya expects a quip, a clever come-back, and he braces himself for it but that’s not what comes. “Alright, then,” Solo says eventually, words thinned out with a sigh. “When you’re ready for that handkerchief, you tell me. I’ll be waiting. On my knees.” 

Illya does not speak for a long time, but he finishes the bottle off by himself, and that night when he tries to sleep, his fingers ache with how hard he rubs them against the trigger. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more pining, and flirting. For the prompt "guess we're stuck here for awhile."

Illya tries the door again. Backs up, runs, and slams himself into it so hard he stumbles when he ricochets off, sitting down on a sack of onions after the fact so he does not collapse in a pile of limbs on the dirty floor of this pantry the two of you are being held hostage in. 

It’s in the basement of a massive southern plantation home, where some of the wealthiest THRUSH agents are currently playing poker, right above your heads. Its infuriating, but the door is _deadbolted_ metal. Even a fucking mutant like Illya isn’t going to muscle his way through it. You lean against a barrel of flour cross your arms, them grow tired of watching him and decide to sit on the floor, gingerly, as your hands are tied. “Well! Looks like we’ll be trapped for a while, Peril,” you announce, yelling over the sound of him ramming his shoulder into the relentless iron door again, like it will _actually_ break before he does. “So _please,_ for the love of god, stop hitting walls and make yourself comfortable. That door is not coming down.” 

“Maybe not for you,” he slurs, like repeatedly throwing his bulk into a metal surface has made him drunk. He sways, wrists swollen from the rope twisted crudely around them, sweat on his temples, hair a wreck. You would like to lick up the cords in his neck very much, but half the time you try such things, he wrenches away and threatens to kill you. (The other half of the time he cedes to it, soaks it up like a parched desert floor, holds you up against the wall and bites your mouth and sobs into it before he gets on his knees and sucks you down. He loves sucking cock so much you think he should give up being a spy in favor of hustling. He’d be fantastic at it, if he weren’t so tragically self-hating.)

However, since you’re locked in a small room together, you don’t feel the need to push, right now. If he’s in a giving sort of mood, it will eventually reveal itself. It’s not as if he can _run_ from the reality of what happens between you sometimes. He’s trying, and it’s not working. He’s stuck with you, like it or not. 

“You’re hard, sure,” you say, cocking your head at him. “But not harder than that door. Please. Sit.” 

He stares at you, and paces, and eyes the place he’s been throwing himself longingly, like the pain of that impact is somehow worse than your cock in his mouth. You know it’s not. You know it’s the best thing in his life, which of course, terrified him. You know he’ll especially like it with his wrists cuffed in front of him, like they are now. 

Finally, he gives up, and collapses beside you. “I hate being held hostage,” he grumbles. “Hate feeling helpless.” 

“Well,” you say, shifting closer to him, so you can feel the heat from his flesh as he pants. “At least you have stellar company.” 

He frowns, but the corner of his mouth twitches, his eyes soften, and you know, in that moment, you’re at least half-way there. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tension, wrestling, banter, flirtation, unsuitably timed erections. For for prompt "well, this is awkward"

Sometimes you spar if Ilya is drunk enough, or worn down enough from your incessant goading. It is usually brief and you usually lose, if only because the second you’re privileged enough to have that terrifying body flush and wrecking against yours, there are certain _reactions_ you cannot hide. So, as soon as things get dicey, you self-defensively roll away, breathless, forfeiting so that Illya can rest in the ruin of his misplaced complacency. 

This time, you are in a holding cell at U.N.C.L.E headquarters, waiting for a hazmat team to come and decontaminate you, since you’ve both _apparently_ been exposed to some THRUSH-made chemical warfare agent. You are bored, and Illya is brooding, bordering on angry. All it takes is some strategic jabs to needle under his skin before he agrees to a sparring match “to pass the time.” 

Time passes, certainly. There’s sweat as your temples and your arms are sore and you’re in too much pain to even chub up properly, which is fantastic because you’re getting off on an intellectual level which is blessedly undetectable. You _love_ when he throws you around like this. It’s a fantastic trick to forget everything save for the fact you have a body, and its breakable, and you are unrequitedly devoted to someone who can break it. Most days, this feels maddeningly fruitless. But when you’re crushed under him and it hurts, you feel like your future might prove to be bearable. 

He has you on your back with your hips locked up when you feel it. 

Hard, hot. A long unmistakable line right up against your thigh, which he is busy crushing between his own while you roll around like schoolboys. The second he pins you on your back in the corner of the room, upending one of the ugly yellow metal regulation chairs which clatters noisily to the floor, you push your leg up into the pressure of it. “Well, this is awkward,” you announce, voice coming out strained because he may or may not be choking you with his forearm. “I thought _I_ was the only one afflicted with such a condition.” 

He digs the bone of his arm into you further, crushing your windpipe, blue eyes flashing with something lovely and dangerous. You slap his shoulder with your free hand, reminding him you’re on the same side, and he’s now allowed to kill you. 

There’s a moment of wavering restraint before be blinks and rolls off, cheeks hot, chest heaving. “It is something that happens,” he says defensively, shoving you away when you try to get closer, hand broad and rough on your shoulder. “When bodies are close. Surely, you are not letting this inflate your ego.” 

“Oh no,” you say, skin burning from the memory of him, the knowledge that Illya Kuryakin’s power to kill you does not seem that different from the fact he gets hard against your leg, just as you get hard against his. You wonder if the fighting is an excuse to touch you, or if the erection is an effect of the fighting. Things get so messy, when men hate the same things they desire. Your eyes fall to his lap, where he’s tenting his trousers, where his hand is moving to cover the evidence, and lick your lips thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> angst, break up, tension, misunderstanding. Written for someone who asked for angst!

Seeing him _hurts,_ but there’s nothing to be done about it. 

You’re co workers now, that’s all, and you have to endure it, despite knowing what the sharp cut of his shoulder blades feel like in your palms, what his spit tastes like, the best way to swallow his gasps, his moans, his cock. You love him, _you love him,_ so deep and real it rips you asunder. But he said that was too much, and you’re never one to ask for more than you’re allowed, so here you are. Forcing memory to this recesses, trying hard not to think about the way his breath smells, the way his biceps feel flexing under the pressure of your grip. 

You tear your gaze away from the elegant cut of his profile now, as Waverly calls you both in to debrief the next case.”Solo, Kuryakin,” he says, as if there’s not tension and pain between the way your names sit together. “You’ll be boarding a plane to Bolivia. Tracking these THRUSH agents, from a distance until we have enough information to strike.”

“Parson my assumptions, Alexander, but _if_ we know they’re THUSH, isn’t that enough? To strike, I mean. In other words, _what_ are we waiting for?” Napoleon says it with such grace and ease, the tilt of his wrist infuriatingly simple, like you could trace it from memory given a pen and some paper, eyes blindfolded. You suck in a sharp breath, annoyed that you still think of such things, when he has _told_ you he no longer wants them. 

“Just. Just _this time,_ can we follow orders without raising a question?” you grumble, shifting your weight to the U.N.C.L.E issue chair creaks under your weight. You _love_ that he interrogates everything, it’s one of the many features which drew you in so completely. But, you are not supposed to be attracted to him right now so you strive to strangle it, choke it to silence. “Let us just. Do our jobs.” 

He turns to you then, gaze so bright and lovely and flashing your stomach knots and turns. You love him, you _love_ him, you are built out of love for him but he does not want that, so you must tear your gaze away from the sure-fire blazing blue of his own. You would think it was wounded, if you didn’t know better. The cool ice stained red in blood. “Yes, Peril,” he snaps, adjusting his cuff-links with trembling fingers. “ _Let’s_ just do our jobs.” 

\---

Waverly booked you two economy seats side by side, and you simply cannot endure eight hours beside Illya, your knees and elbows brushing, the ice grey-blue of his eyes close enough to pitch back into. 

So, you steal a first class ticket off of a sleeping old man in the terminal. It’s not your finest hour, in fact you suspect it dips back into the sort of idle cruelty you entertained _before_ you were made soft by loving Illy Kuryakin more than was healthy for either of you, but it doesn’t matter. This is who you are now, a thief pursuing the edge me made you lose. 

On the plane you order mimosas and pound them until your head is fuzzy and your stomach alive with static, with carbonation. You think it will stop you from caving to the urge to crane your head around to look down the aisle for him fruitlessly, but it just makes you less stealthy about it, your motion wide and sweeping and desperate and hungry. 

Now, half drunk and quite alone in first class, you are forced to reconcile with the truth: that when you told Illya you wanted to stop what you were doing with him, you didn’t _truly want_ to stop anything. You did not want him to look at you with that stricken expression, those eyes dark with blown pupil and say _fine_ like a fistful of black earth tossed upon a a fresh grave, so final, so _dead._ You wanted him ti grap your shoulder and back you up against the wall and bit your mouth and _refuse_ to stop. You wanted him to fight for you, _convince_ you this was worth pursuing at all odds. To prove he wanted it. 

You pushed him away, though, hurt him before he could hurt you, because it is what you’re good at. Idle cruelty, leaking out into the world and three-fold back at yourself, like poison. 

You sigh, raise your hand to the stewardess, and request a shot of whiskey this time. She eyes you warily, but does as she’s told. 

As you throw it back it burns, and you think about how many pits you dig and bury yourself in, because you refuse directness, always gazing at a reflection in the water instead of staring directly at the sun. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff, romance, morning after.

Solo wakes up, eyes sticky and chest tight and cock spent and over-sensitive. He takes a moment to stare at the hotel wall and rub curiously up his own chest before he dares to roll over, and see if Ilya has managed to _stay,_ after all that went on last night. 

He’s there, snoring, cheek pressed to the pillow so hard there’s a crease. His lips look swollen still from so much kissing, so much scouring against the dense black hair on Napoleon’s chest and _god._ Napoleon is afraid to _breathe,_ lest he scare him off. 

It’s been so many months of push and shove, and endless dance. Napoleon never _really thought_ Ilya might give in and admit to the storm between them, but _then._ Last night, he’d caved and caved again, sand walls crumbling to seawater as Napoleon kissed him, bent him in half, licked up his sweat. 

Now, he reaches out with a tentative hand, and lays it upon Illya’s sleep-steady pulse. He suspects Ilya might wake up and try to kill him, as men do, break his fingers for having been up inside him the night prior, but for now, he’ll take this. The touch of stubble dusted skin, the shape of his mouth soft and broken while he dreams. 

Illya stirs, frowns, reaches out and encircles long fingers deft and sudden around Napoleon’s wrist. “Napoleon,” he mumbles, thumb digging between divots of sinew. “You are still here.” 

“Yes, I am still _in my own bed,”_ Napoleon announces, licking his lips and shifting closer, to see if he might steal a kiss before his mouth is punched to a ruin. “How shocking.” 

“Shocking you did not decide to beat me, while I was asleep,” Ilya murmurs, opening his eyes, two slits of glorious, blinking grey-blue. “It is what Russian men do.” 

“I am neither Russian, nor self-denying,” Napoleon offers, pitching forward into Illya’s breath, fitting their lips together easily, hungrily. He kisses and Illya kisses back, and that alone stops his heart dead in his chest. “And I rather thought _you,_ might beat _me._ If we’re speaking of beatings,”he murmurs as be pulls away, stomach knotted. 

Illya licks his upper lip, tracing the line of it before pressing their brows together so firmly Napoleon’s heart drops out of his chest. He’s not sure what to _do,_ how to _act,_ when men like Illya just _take_ him how he is, put up with the affection without a fight. “There are other thing’s I’d prefer to do to you, Cowboy,” Illya announces, rolling him onto his back. “Now that I know you want them.” 

Napoleon _does_ want them. He wants them very much, even if he believes on some deep and fundamental level they are not _for_ him, _not_ offered for free as they seem to be. So, he tilts his head back, an gives Illya the line of his throat, because he will leech what he’s allowed until he’s not anymore. “You may do as you please,” he assures, hands palming up the straight ladder of his spine. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more flirting, banter, and teasing.

“How _exactly_ did you manage to get stuck in there?” Napoleon asks, shoes clicking on the tile. You are wedged quite thoroughly into the bottom of serving cart, knees aching. All you can see are his legs, and if you could _move_ you would most certainly be dealing them a swift kick right now. 

“I am not stuck,” you lie. “I am concealing myself. You could stand to do the same.” 

He crouches down to look at you, and it’s a terrible thing you cannot move right now, because it means you’re not capable of doing anything but returning his terrible, searing eye-contact. Since realizing Napoleon Solo wants you at least half as bad as you want him, you avoid looking at him dead on in public, because it turns your stomach to fire and forces you to recall whatever filthy and illegal and wonderful and awful things you were likely letting him do to you behind closed doors the night prior. “No need to conceal yourself, peril. We caught our man, he was attempting to sneak out in catering uniform. In fact, there is no reason _at all_ for you to remain in this kitchen, or this position, so. You can come out.”

Of course, you cannot come out. Your eyes flash, giving you away, and his smile is _so terrifically complacent_ you want to bite it off his mouth. “I require assistance,” you grumble, closing your eyes so you don’t have to witness how _delighted_ his expression must be right now. 

“I rather like you there,” he says then, leaning close, breath hot and minty on the side on your face. “It means you can’t pull away or hit me if I try to kiss you in public, which I’ve been wanting to try. _But_ my unwillingness to be rejected or struck has prevented the experiment,” he purrs, thumbing over the cut of your cheekbone while you struggle, mortified.

“I will hit you as soon as I am free,” you warm him, heart pounding as he mouths over your jaw. “You are only delaying the inevitable.”

“Oh Illya,” he purrs before licking your lips, which re parted and shocked and _betraying you,_ gasping in the slick of his spit _. “You_ are the one delaying the inevitable.” 

You kiss back, because there’s nothing you can do, nowhere you can move, and he wants you, and you want him, and that is the way things are, now. 

You’d never admit such a thing to him, but there’s a certain sort of deep, profound in relief to being contained, stuck, helpless. His stubble scrapes your chin, and you cannot be held at fault for something you’re unable to resist. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> flirtation, posessiveness, minor angst, romance. For the prompt "I'm protective of the things I love."

Napoleon is still seething several hours later, after the train ride, after getting his _decidedly minor_ scrapes patched up in the U.N.C.L.E infirmary. He thinks the anger might drain from his body the moment he sees Illya, since lately Napoleon has proven somewhat likely to be compromised where Illya’s concerned, but the moment he finds him brooding in an empty office, the rage _doubles,_ perhaps even triples. 

He slams the door, nearly locks it, and rounds on him. “What on _earth_ happened back there?” he snaps, glaring at Illya who is refusing to meet his eyes, just sitting there hulking in a two small chair like a vast hunk of ice.“ You realize because of _your_ bad judgement, _we_ allowed a THRUSH agent to run off with highly confidential file!? Alexander is going to _have out necks_ for this, Peril. And you can bet when it comes down to writing a report on the incident, I am _not_ going to take responsibility for _your_ blunders. Care to _explain_ why you _forcibly_ extricated me from that fight?” 

Illya stands up, blue eyes flashing dangerously as they _finally_ lock on, silently arresting Napoleon where he stands. “Because. He had a gun, and you—you were losing consciousness in the headlock, and —“

“And what? Step in, assist, _shoot_ for god’s sake but don’t _pull me out_ like I’m some _delicate—”_

 _“_ You are not _delicate,_ do not allow _your ego_ to get in the way of what really happened, Cowboy. I accessed the situation and..and—” he falters, blinking rapidly, mouth suddenly downturned and troubled at the corners and Napoleon’s heart seizes up, something like fondness wrestling the fury to submission, as it always does. 

“And you risked _your_ life to intervene instead of just _firing,”_ he fills in, voice much quieter this time, the fight faded out of it. 

_“_ It was a messy fight, the basement, it was dark–I could have shot _you_. It was a risk I was not willing to take,” Illya admits. 

Napoleon sighs crisply, crossing his arms in front of his chest, which is deflating with a long, aching exhalation. It’s hard, to stay angry, when he realizes he’s angry at Illya for the same reasons Illya compromised the mission. Fear, worry. How much higher the stakes are when your partner is also your everything else. 

“We’re spies. Getting nicked with a bullet is collateral damage, a risk we have to be willing to take,” he reminds Illya, perhaps at the same time he’s reminding himself. Then he reaches out, lays a hand ever so briefly on Illya’s hip, thumbing over a scar he knows it hidden there under the cotton of his shirt. They’re both covered in them, and that has never mattered much or felt like narrow scrapes of moments of regret until recently, when everything changed between them and Napoleon suddenly started fearing death. 

“I know,” Illya mumbles, tilting into the touch for a split second before stepping away. “I am sorry,” he murmurs then, voice so quiet an muffled under his hand as he scrubs it reflexively over his mouth. “I am protective of the things I love.” 

Napoleon smiles in spite of himself. “Tragically, this is a trait I’m afraid we share.” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jealousy, flirtation, posessiveness.

It is one thing, watching him flirt with marks. 

That’s the job, that’s collateral damage. It’s no different than when you must put a bullet through a man’s head. 

But sometimes, he flirts with people _outside_ a job. Women at bars, men in the alley ways behind them. He lays his elegant thieving hands on their backs, leans in to smell the perfume on their necks, cups his hands to light their cigarettes, eyes lingering on the ripple of a throat, a pocket square, and somewhere beyond in the darkness, you watch and wither. 

Try as you might to feign indifference, you hate when Napoleon touches other people. You don’t understand _why_ he does it, when he _knows_ it bothers you, when he _knows_ that you will always end up crawling into his bed night upon night. As far as you know, it is simply for show. You _have_ him most days, his skin under your palms, his scar tissue beneath your lips as you kiss over every place he’s been torn and healed. He doesn’t _need_ to look at anyone else; you certainly don’t. 

Perhaps he does it only to wound you, to remind you how pitiful you’ve become in his palm. Or perhaps he simply doesn’t _realize_ what a compulsion it is, a habit long worn in by repetition and sold flesh. _Regardless,_ it digs barbs in your flesh, hooks you solidly and makes you put him up against the wall and _take_ him back in your hotel room, kiss him until he’s gasping, fuck him until he cannot remember anyone save for you. 

“What was his name?” you ask as you bend him in half, words coming out choppy and choked between hot, hungry presses of your mouth to his throat. You bite him, and suck at the mouthful of skin between your teeth, over and over again until he’s littered in marks. Tomorrow he will have to borrow one of your turtlenecks, and something about that certainty is soothing. 

“Who’s name?” he gasps out, fingers snagging through your hair, pawing at your back at you rut your hard cock into the crack of his ass. “My _god_ Illya, kiss me. ”

You do as he says, because you always do. There is no other way of being. Even when you’re on top, planning to fuck him and core him and make him yours all over again, you will do whatever he says. 

His lips are soft and bitten under yours, his groan stifled to nothingness as you crush it. “The man,” you say as you pull away, pressing your face to his cheek and inhaling. “The man who you were looking at all night, who you—the bus boy. Who you so _handsomely_ tipped.” 

“Illya,” he forces out with a laugh, hooking his ankles behind your back, dragging you closer so the tip nudges against his hole. “I never know their _names_. They’re just pawns. Tools to make you jealous, all of them. I thought you—you _must_ know it’s a game?” 

You peel back to stare down at him, the brilliant crystal blue of his eyes, the sardonic line through his brow like you are so _foolish,_ like you are so _blind._ Instead of answering you kiss him hard, like a punishment. “It works,” you mumble into his teeth. “It makes me very jealous.” 

“Oh Peril, I _know,”_ he purrs, reaching between the desperate grind of your bodies to curl his fingers around your cock. “That’s why I do it. Then, I get you like this. So desperate for me.” 

You cover his mouth with your hand, and bite his pulse to hide the fact what he’s just said has made you smile. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> teasing, jealousy, rough kissing. For the prompt kissing against a wall.

You have been intentionally driving him crazy all day. 

It’s a simple thing to do: Illya is pathologically jealous and dutifully observant, so every move you make is seen, registered, and usually misinterpreted. Unless of course you’re _gunning_ or a misinterpretation, needling into him, winding him and watching him tick away like a toy solider swinging a bayonet.

You love to remind yourself how passionately he _wants_ you. And not _just_ wants you, but wants you wholly and only. So, after missions or between marks you compliment women’s hair, you lay your hand on their sleeve and fawn over the newest fashion. He always bristles, eyes flashing the purest shade of grey, like the pearly steel of a handheld revolver’s trigger. You watch his fingers twitch, something in his jaw tighten, and know you have him. Wholly and only. 

Turning your gaze to other men is always what does him in. He is powerfully insecure that his former inexperience in this particular area will drive you away, that his mouth his not _good_ enough, his hands ill-practiced and clumsy. You don’t tell him you _love_ that you’re the only man who’s come apart in them, because then maybe, he’ll continue believing you have power over him, when it’s always, _always_ him who has power over you. 

You buy a young man a drink at a gin joint in Camden after you’ve spent the evening dancing with divorcees dripping in diamonds at a private soiree you and Illya had to attend. As soon as you fork over the pound notes to the bartender, he is upon you. 

“What on earth,” you hiss, feigning shock. “Did you see something? Did Madame Foreman _follow_ us all the way here to the canals?” 

“Come,” he says, and steers you through the darkness, to the dingy bathrooms. HIs grip is deliciously biting and your stomach plummets in anticipation of his rage. 

He slams the door behind you and upon sliding the latch shut he puts you up against it, trapping you beneath the solidity of his body. His breath is hot and tastes of gin as he presses his mouth to your throat and grinds out “That man wants to take you to bed.” 

“I suspect you won’t let him,” you murmur, heart pounding as he squeezes your ass and hefts you against the wall so hard your spine aches. He licks hungrily at your pulse before biting it, like he could rip out your throat, and you shudder against him predictably. You’ve been half-hard ever since you decided you would provoke him into manhandling you, but your cock stirs at the pressure of his body, the wavering mess of his restraint. You love him always, but you’re also vain, so you especially love him like this. 

“No I won’t,” he mumbles, slamming you back into the door, making it rattle in its hinges as a breath escapes you in a desperate huff. “You are mine,” he says then, raw and bleeding and like he _wants_ to believe it more than he actually does. It twists up deliciously inside of you anyway, and you kiss him hard, moaning into his mouth, letting him knock your knees apart and fit his broad thigh into the vacancy between them. _Yours_ you think complacently, vision nothing but static white haze. _Wholly and Only._


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff, teasing, banter.

Napoleon has seen Illya bleeding, and half dead. He has seen him tender and broken down. He’s heard him whisper through tears _I love you,_ and _I want you inside me_ and _what do you do to me?_

But never, fucking _never,_ has he seen him get positively _silly._

 _“I’ve_ seen it,” Gaby brags over a martini one night. She chews the olive with her mouth open and adds, “That first mission. I made him dance. He danced like a Russian dancing bear. He smiled a little, even. So I slapped him.” 

Illya frowns, kicks out at her under the table. “You were very confusing that night.” 

“ _Friends,_ colleagues. Please. You know I loathe that we never had a ménage à trois before Ms. Teller here realized she was too good for us scoundrels. ” Napoleon snaps. He hates when Gaby prods at this sore spot, which she only does drunk, which means she does it often. 

Illya shoots him a sweet look, the corner of his mouth softened into something that’s _almost_ a grin. “Don’t be jealous,” he murmurs, and touches Napoleon’s wrist _right there,_ where they’re seated on the floor in front of the glass coffee table in Gaby’s hotel room. He rarely touches Napoleon where she can see, so every time it happens it feels like a revelation, like a firefly in a jar. 

“I will smear shaving cream on your face when you are least expecting it. And you’ll regret ever wishing you saw me this way,” Illya says then, and presses the rim of his drink to his lips. 

“If he does that,” Gaby announces, raising her glass. “You slap him.” 


End file.
